Gone-Girl-by-Gillian-Flynn

the clue say?’
I let him read over my shoulder again, his jarringly fresh smell distracting
me.
‘So what’s that one mean?’ he asked.
‘I have no idea,’ I lied.
I finally rid myself of Gilpin, then drove aimlessly down the highway so I
could make a call on my disposable. No pickup. I didn’t leave a message. I
sped for a while longer, as if I could get anywhere, and then drove the 45
minutes back toward town to meet the Elliotts at the Days Inn. I walked into a
lobby packed with members of the Midwest Payroll Vendors Association –
wheelie bags parked everywhere, their owners slurping complimentary drinks
in small plastic cups and networking, forced guttural laughs and pockets
fished for business cards. I rode up the elevator with four men, all balding and
khaki’d and golf-shirted, lanyards bouncing off round married bellies.
Marybeth opened the door while talking on her cell phone; she pointed
toward the TV and whispered to me, ‘We have a cold-cut tray if you want,
sweetheart,’ then went into the bathroom and closed the door, her murmurs
continuing.
She emerged a few minutes later, just in time for the local five o’clock
news from St. Louis, which led with Amy’s disappearance. ‘Perfect photo,’
Marybeth murmured at the screen, where Amy peered back at us. ‘People will
see it and really know what Amy looks like.’
I’d thought the portrait – a head shot from Amy’s brief fling with acting –
beautiful but unsettling. Amy’s pictures gave a sense of her actually watching
you, like an old-time haunted-house portrait, the eyes moving from left to
right.
‘We should get them some candid photos too,’ I said. ‘Some everyday
ones.’
The Elliotts nodded in tandem but said nothing, watching. When the spot
was done, Rand broke the silence: ‘I feel sick.’
‘I know,’ Marybeth said.
‘How are you holding up, Nick?’ Rand asked, hunched over, hands on
both knees, as if he were preparing to get up from the sofa but couldn’t quite
do it.
‘I’m a goddamn mess, to tell the truth. I feel so useless.’